


a fraction of your smile

by thatiranianphantom (FrraFee)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, angsty and schmaltzy, dont shoot me I am not a Hamilton expert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 13:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6757012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrraFee/pseuds/thatiranianphantom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phillip is dead. And everything Alexander Hamilton is, he isn't now.</p><p>Or, how the Hamilton family copes in the wake of Phillip's death and the Reynolds Pamphlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fraction of your smile

**Author's Note:**

> WHY AM I DOING THIS?!
> 
> Forreal because this is actual historical facts, Eliza and Hamilton did get back together and have another child and they are my weakness and there is nothing on the internet about this and I can’t let that stand. 
> 
> Why is this 4000 words though…..

Phillip dies.

It’s perhaps most important to state that first. It’s the impetus, he supposes, for everything that comes next. 

Alexander Hamilton knows who he his. He always has.

He survives. 

He can’t seem to die.

Laurens died. Washington died. 

His son died.

He can’t seem to die. 

 

(*)

 

He slept with Maria Reynolds and while he knows why, he still isn’t sure. 

He hurt his wife and children.

Washington is dead.

And his son is dead.

That’s important.

Alexander Hamilton is a force of nature. He is brash and energetic, quick to act and slow to think.

But Phillip is dead.

And he’s not. 

Everything that Alexander thought he was, now he isn’t. He doesn’t understand this feeling, like something has broken inside of him. Something has broken inside all of them.  
And he doesn’t even know how to begin picking the pieces up. 

Maybe there are some things too unimaginable to come back from.

Maybe his shattered soul will never heal. Maybe his fractured family will never recover. 

Maybe if you walked through darkness one too many times, it invades you. Sinks into your bones. Becomes part of you. 

 

(*)

 

If he thinks back, he can remember who Alexander Hamilton was.

(He doesn’t even recognize himself anymore).

Alexander Hamilton’s loyal, loving wife begged him to take a break. Wanted him with her. Alexander Hamilton couldn’t even look up from his work.

Alexander Hamilton was obsessed with getting congress to hear him.

Alexander Hamilton wanted to leave a legacy. 

Alexander Hamilton never threw away his shot.

And this man, this man he is now, he doesn’t recognize, but then he also doesn’t know how to be that Alexander Hamilton again.

His son is dead.

The world had punished him for his arrogance, for his infidelity, for his absolute inability to see what was right in front of him by taking his child, breaking his family and devastating his wife.

His fault. 

(*)

(*)

 

The brokenness breathes itself into every corner of the house. 

Angelica screams.

His daughter screams out like it’s that first day all over again. 

Seventeen years old and Angelica retreats into herself. She calls out for her brother, laughs with her brother, talks with her brother who isn’t there and never will be again.  
Alexander Jr. and James hold her back when she tries to go after him. 

He tries, but he wants to go after Phillip as well.

And Eliza…Eliza says nothing.

Eliza feels nothing.

Eliza is a machine, mechanically moving through each day. She cares for their remaining children methodically, teaches William his scales, tucks little Elizabeth in at night. She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t talk to him.

 

(*)

 

He should stop for a moment.

Eliza is his wife of almost twenty years. 

He strayed, but he loves her. God, he loves her.

Such a complex concept, love is. 

He knows he made an error sleeping with Maria Reynolds, but it feels so muted and unimportant now. 

He was never home. Eliza functionally raised his children on her own. She took the barest scraps of affection he gave her. She made do for so long. 

He betrayed her, betrayed their children, but he loves her. 

He can’t find a time where he didn’t.

And that’s the part he doesn’t understand. How can you love someone and do that to them?

How could he be with another woman when Eliza and his children waited for him at home? What part of his soul did he suppress to allow that to happen?

(*)

 

They bury Phillip near Trinity Church. A tree hangs over the gravesite. Sometimes when he passes it whips in the wind, almost like it’s waving. 

During the funeral he reaches for Eliza’s hand, and she presses her nails into her palm, keeping her hand at her side. 

Two weeks after the funeral, they move upstate. 

He and Eliza inhabit different rooms. He doesn’t have enough courage to venture into her room. He wants more than anything to give her some measure of comfort, but knows that she will not allow him to so much as touch her right now. 

(*)

 

It’s quiet uptown.

Alexander Hamilton has lived his life in the spotlight, each moment frenetic and fleeting. 

But here, it’s quiet. 

Somehow that feels right. 

If he listens closely, sometimes he thinks he may feel Phillip with him. 

(*)

 

In a selfish way, he needs to comfort her. He needs to share the anguish in his soul unlike anything he has ever felt with someone. 

He presses his ear to the door at night, listens to his wife’s heaving sobs. 

The brokenness in his soul consumes everything. His children don’t know what to do. His wife is as good as a stranger, always moving away. 

 

(*)

 

The closest they come is when they lie in Angelica’s bed with their child in the middle of them. Her screams for Phillip have ebbed, but her slumber is fitful. Eliza’s hand rests on the hip of their daughter. 

Eliza’s dark hair mixes with their daughter’s hair, and how could he ever give this up?

His wife (she is still his wife) combs her fingers through their daughter’s hair. She is so strong, so beautiful.

He has no right.

But he loves her so, so much. 

It takes long minutes to summon the courage, but very quietly, he rests his hand a bit higher than his wife’s, on their daughter’s hip. 

He waits in tense anticipation. 

Eliza doesn’t move. 

Even slower, he moves his hand down. Until it covers hers. 

She tenses. But she does not move. 

(*)

 

The garden becomes his personal sanctuary. 

He doesn’t write a single letter. Doesn’t care what Burr is doing. Doesn’t think about Jefferson.

Phillip is dead.

Your mother can’t take another heartbreak.

He had just wanted to protect them. 

He killed his son. Eaker’s hand was on the trigger, but he had loaded the gun.

He thinks of his beautiful Phillip. How he’d come home from long days at war, and his small son would leap into his arms and look into his eyes. Alexander knew, he knew that Phillip could see there all that he had done. All the lives taken, all the hurt he had caused, all the betrayal. 

All of it faded away when those solemn brown eyes that saw, that knew, looked at him and that chose him to be his daddy anyway. 

And Phillip is dead.

(*)

 

Maybe they’ve turned a corner, he dares to dream, because his wife’s door is open.

Like every night, her sobs ring loudly into the hall, and the children pretend they don’t hear. Nothing gets better. Nothing changes.

Except. The door is open now.

The first night, he only makes it to the end of the hallway. 

The second night, the doorframe.

The third, he stands in the door. 

The fourth, he presses himself against the wall and says nothing.

But on the fifth, he sits gingerly on the edge of the bed.

And on the sixth, he speaks.

“I would trade his…”

“I know.” 

That’s all they say. They sit their, united in grief, together but so very far apart. 

The seventh night, he just misses his wife. It’s been so long and he deserves nothing from her but he misses her so much it physically aches. 

And maybe that makes him a little stupid, because as his wife lies on the bed that should be theirs with tears silently tracking down her cheeks, he lies behind her and rests his arm around her.

Even if she allowed it for just one second, it would be better. It would be enough.

But she turns and her dark eyes are wet with tears, and suddenly, his wife lies in his arms, and their tears mingle. He presses his face into his beautiful Eliza’s shoulder, trembling.

“Our son is dead,” he whispers. “Our son.”

He laces his fingers with hers and it feels like home.

(*)

 

Two weeks later, she allows him to sleep in their bed. They lie facing each other. Her dark eyes, their son’s eyes, rest gently on him. Waiting. 

He lifts his hand gingerly and brings it to her cheek, rubbing her cheekbone. 

A ghost of a smile touches her lips, and she is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. He brings his hand over her forehead, stroking her hair away, touching her nose, her temples, and her lips.

And as much as he hates to think of Maria Reynolds in a time like this, he does. He thinks back and he is disgusted with himself. Absolutely repulsed by his actions. His beautiful, amazing, perfect wife lies in front of him, and he slept with some woman whose asshole husband used her for blackmail.

She knows what he’s thinking, she always does, and she raises her hand and winds their fingers together on her cheek.

(*)

 

“Do you remember when he made us get married?” He asks her.

They are lying in her – their bed together. They face each other but don’t touch. When they do this, they talk about Phillip. They remember him together. 

She smiles.

“He would never accept that we were already married. He wasn’t there so it doesn’t count, he’d say.”

Alexander lets a chuckle escape. “Remember the wedding he staged?”

“Of course. He spent all day making a suit out of a sack for you,” she grins, her shoulders moving in a brief, sad laugh.

“And you looked particularly beautiful in your pillowcase veil,” he returns.

She smiles again. Shifts closer to him. 

“And your vows?” she whispers. “Do you remember those?”

“Hardest on the spot speech I’ve ever done in my life. Thank god I had help.”

Her eyes shift down. He notes her fingers creeping closer to his.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

“I promise to make your dinner every night. I promise to never complain that you always leave your boots outside and I have to go fetch them. Except right now. I promise to always sing the songs Phillip likes and never make him eat vegetables.”

They laugh together, remembering their four-year-old son’s insistence on these particular promises. 

She is almost against him when she continues.

“I remember to remember every second of every day that what we are is a miracle. That we fought for so long to be here. That we have survived. That all of our children are a living, breathing reminder of why we are lucky to be alive. That our love is real, and here, and it will bend but it was forged to never break.”

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. 

He can only repeat his own words to her. 

“I promise to make you pie and play games with you and also never make Phillip eat his vegetables.”

Their hands clasp together. 

“I promise to always remember that wherever I go, no matter what I do, I will come home and it will be enough. That I never deserved you but you are here. That we are enough. I know who I’m marrying, Eliza. You are always inside my heart.”

Her lips rest millimeters from his.

“What comes next?” she whispers.

He gulps.

“He would have said….”

He brings his hand to her cheek.

“You may kiss the bride.”

And he does. 

(*)

 

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, a tiny flame flickers in the darkness. William, John and James laugh again, and the sound breathes life into their house, something that has been absent too long. 

Little Elizabeth leaps into the bed Eliza now allows him to stay in every morning, waking her parents with wet kisses planted on their cheeks. 

Angelica wobbles between her world and theirs, but more often could be coaxed away from her troubles.

And though Eliza has been ill of late, she continues to allow them to inhabit the same bed after their night spent together.

He would by lying if he said he wasn’t confused when Angelica the older comes to him, seemingly out of the blue, and gives him a sound smack on the arm. 

“Ouch! Angelica, what was that for?”

She gives him a steely glare. 

“Go to the bedroom and talk to your wife.”

“What –“

“Go”. 

Completely perplexed, he gets up and moves to go to Eliza. 

Angelica’s arm clamps on his for a moment and she hisses “Remember, I will choose my sister’s happiness over my own every time. You hurt her, and I will not hesitate to hurt you.”

He strides into the room, nervousness seeping out of every pore. He had thought he and Eliza were on the mend. Did she mean to end it? Could he survive this?

She sits on the edge of their bed, her spine tense and rigid. 

He sits gingerly beside her. Not good news, that much is clear. 

He can only manage to force one word out. “Eliza…”

“I am with child. Again.”

His stomach drops out from under him.

A child. Another child. 

This could not be what they needed right now. They were just getting started in mending their broken relationship, the children they already had were slowly starting to recover from their loss, and Angelica was still….

And, as he could not forget, he could bond with this child only to lose it. In the womb, in life, his child could be snatched from him in the blink of an eye. 

Beside him, he feels Eliza’s shoulder start to shake with sobs, and he hardly thinks before putting his arm around her and pulling her in. 

They are again two parents grieving, but this time the loss of a child still alive.

(*)

 

The child does not die, though. Eliza’s pregnancy progresses to the point where they must tell the children, though they had both been avoiding it. If something were to happen, their children, least of all Angelica, could not take this. 

Alexander watches over Eliza like a hawk, close enough that she finally starts complaining when he insists that two loaves of bread are too heavy for her to be carrying. 

He tries his very best not to bond with his child. Horrible as it sounds, the pain he felt at Phillip’s death is not a pain he could survive again. 

Eliza knows this, and perhaps feels some of the same sentiments. 

Still, the look on her face when the baby starts kicking is one he will never forget. And when she lays his hand on her belly to feel their child, moving and alive, he falls in love anyway. 

He can’t ever remember being here this much for one of his wife’s pregnancies. He is still Alexander Hamilton. His time is in demand. Has been since he and Eliza met. But now, he comes home at the end of the day. Now his children show him what they have crafted for him and his 13 year old proudly produces a piano composition for him. 

As the time of the birth drew nearer, Alexander found himself wanting to be home more. Wanting more time with his wife and children. 

And if there is something, anything good to come from his son’s death, he is okay with it being this. 

(*)

 

When Eliza is approximately two months from delivery, George Eaker is tried. She clutches his hand and he thanks god for the witnesses to his son’s murder. His arms wrap protectively around his pregnant wife as that cad is convicted of murder charges and sentenced to prison. 

It’s funny, Alexander had always felt a sense of relief when a defendant was remanded to jail for a dangerous crime. He supposes it’s still fitting. 

But that does not bring back a lost child. It doesn’t make up for the moments of his life his son will never get to have. It doesn’t change the fact that Angelica is not recovered and his wife will never get to hold a child of Phillip’s. Eaker’s dishonorable actions had affected their entire family, and nothing would change that. 

(*)

 

They are at a congressional dinner. Eliza sits beside him; her hand perched on her round belly. 

Their child is due to come into this world any day, and the minutes are ticking down in Alexander’s head like a countdown to an explosion.

He is not new to being a father. He has seven – six children, he has been through every trial of parenthood there is.

Well, Eliza has.

As was so gently pointed out to him by his 15-year-old son, he was rarely there.

He’s never even seen one of his children’s births. 

 

His wife excuses herself several minutes into the address, and he does notice that she has been gone some time. 

So when Angelica the older comes to him, seizes his arm and drags him back, he feels fear clench around his heart. 

She drags him to the back parlor, where his wife sits in a chair, bent over her midsection.

“Eliza,” he gasps, rushing to her and bringing a hand to her flushed cheek.

“The child, Alexander,” she whispers. “It is time.”

At Eliza’s insistence, they bring her back to the house and don’t fetch the doctor yet. After seven births, she insists they trust her when she says this child is hours from arriving. 

Angelica settles Eliza in their room, laying down sheets, and quickly bans him from the room. 

He presses a kiss to his bride’s head and squeezes her hand, then pulls up a chair outside their room. 

He supposes he’s been there for close to an hour when he hears her screams begin. He has never been good with his wife being in pain, but her screams strike his soul.  
He clamps his hands over his ears and tries to drown it out. 

Angelica comes out once every half hour or so, looking increasingly tired, and assures him his wife is doing fine. Children take many hours to arrive.

It’s not enough for him. 

In a matter of hours, his final child will be here. Will no longer be sheltered inside Eliza. Will be vulnerable and helpless.

The panic buzzes in his ears, and he can’t do this again, couldn’t survive this, can’t even imagine losing another child to this fragile world. 

He presses his ear against the door, and hears little but rustling sheets and Angelica’s soothing murmurs. 

And his wife screams out. 

Only this time she is screaming for him and nothing on this earth could hold him back. He flings the door open and Angelica moves to stop him but he brushes past her, grabs Eliza’s hand.

“I’m not leaving.”

Angelica sighs. 

“There is enough stress here, Alexander, and enough work to be done to keep you occupied until the child is born.”

He fixes her with a look and positions himself so that he has one leg on either side of his wife and he breathes into her dark hair, her hands clutching his.

He whispers soothing words to her, combs his fingers through her hair, tells her he loves her so very much. 

“She is my wife, Angelica. I’m. Not. Leaving.”

A shadow of something he can’t quite define falls across Angelica’s face, and she erases it with a sigh.

“We have not yet sent for the midwife. The child takes its time in coming.”

 

(*)

 

He is not sure how long they sit there. His legs cramp and grow numb, but every time he tries to change positions, she grabs his leg in a panic and will not let him go. 

Finally, long after the sun has set and the older children have tucked the younger ones in bed, Eliza allows them to send for the midwife. 

Angelica says she will check how close the child is one more time. She checks and her eyes widen. Eliza slumps against him, exhausted, but he sees his sister in law’s face. 

“Angelica?”

She steels her expression and lays a hand on her sister’s knee. 

“Eliza, darling. The child must come now. You must push right now.”

Eliza’s head whips back and forth, and tears spill from her cheeks.

“I can’t,” she sobs. “I can’t lose another. This child is safe inside.”

His wife grabs her sister’s hand and he’s not sure whose heart breaks more.

“Please Angelica,” she cries. “Please keep it inside.”

“Darling, I can’t.” her sister tries, but her words fall on deaf ears. 

Eliza’s tears fall harder and faster, amongst moans of pain. Her head whips back and forth in an expression of “no, no, no!”

He isn’t sure what comes over him, but he suddenly leaves his position to kneel in front of his wife and take her head into his hands.

“Eliza, Eliza look at me,” He whispers. 

“Do you remember what Phillip said after we got married?”

Her sobs still come in gasps but her eyes focus on him. 

“Do you remember? 

Eliza gasps. “He said…he said that if he ever had to…”

Alexander strokes her cheek.

“If he ever had to go away, we would still be married. We would still have each other.” 

She heaves a sigh from deep inside her, and he stills his fingers. 

“We have to do this, darling. It’s time.”

She clutches his fingers, exhaustion seeping from every pore. 

“You won’t leave?” 

A small smile touches his lips. He squeezes her fingers and takes his position behind her again. And when her sister commands her to push again, he whispers the words softly into her ear. 

“I promise to always remember that wherever I go, no matter what I do, I will come home and it will be enough.”

One final scream, and a smaller one joins it. 

(*)

 

It is a boy. He cuts the cord that separates the infant from his mother. 

The child is placed in Eliza’s arms and they both gently touch the perfect boy’s tiny fingers.

He is called Phillip. 

Two Phillips. 

Alexander was never sure before, but now he knows it to be true: their Phillip, their first one, he is right there. He never left. He is in the room with them, with his little brother. 

They keep him alive, together, and that is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY DON’T SHOOT ME I’M NEW.
> 
> Honestly, I held out on Hamilton for so long and then I got addicted and yeah. Now I’m an addict. There should be a 12 Step Hamilton Program. 
> 
> Those who know me know I am never satisfied (ha) with what I write and this is no different because I still think the vow things are too schmaltzy and cheesy and the pace feels a bit off but I hope y’all enjoyed!


End file.
